


Whumptober in Midgar

by klytaemnestra (klytae)



Category: Before Crisis: Final Fantasy VII, Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020), Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: #whumptober2020, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:56:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klytae/pseuds/klytaemnestra
Summary: A series of Shinra flavoured Whumptober offerings. Will include graphic depictions of violence, physical and psychological trauma, self harm, and generally not fun scenarios.
Relationships: Heidegger/Rufus Shinra, Rufus Shinra/Original Character(s), Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Comments: 132
Kudos: 137
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. No. 1 & No. 2: Let's Hang Out Sometime, in the Hands of the Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> No. 1 & No. 2: Let's Hang Out Sometime, in the Hands of the Enemy

The first thing he notices is the sound. The low rumble of something overhead, the hiss of mako, and the steady drip of what he hopes is merely water. He’s been blindfolded, and when he tries to move his hands, he feels the bulk of shackles around his wrists. And as he sits there listening for some sign of exactly where he is, Rufus Shinra, heir to the most powerful corporation on the planet, accepts that he has been kidnapped. His memories are foggy, mind swimming like he’s had one too many glasses of cognac, but he knows he had left the safety of the Shinra building sometime early in the evening, slipped away from the Turk put on him, and found a dark smokey speakeasy in Sector 8. His drink must have been drugged. There’s a noise to his left, a scratching, then clatter, the scrap of a chair dragged along cement flooring. He smells the stench of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and booze, and tenses.

There’s the bite of something cold against his throat, a knife, or razor. Rufus understands that he is worth more alive than dead, but that knowledge does little to calm his racing pulse.

‘Looks like the little prince has woken up.’ A voice echoes from behind him, mockingly. ‘Didn’t even need a kiss.’ The blade at his throat drags upwards, flat edge running along the seam of his lips. ‘Shame, really. This one’s a real looker.’ Rufus remains deathly still. There are at least two of them, from the slums, maybe Don Corneo’s men. The mob boss of Wall Market had a very loose alliance with Shinra. They turned a blind eye to the Don’s dealings, so long as he provided them with valuable information. Unfortunately, the power balance is a delicate one, ever shifting, and if a faction of his lackeys have developed new ambitions of their own, that might render that alliance meaningless.

There’s the sound of a door slamming, the jangle of keys, and then three gunshots. Blood spatters across his face as he hears two bodies slump to the ground. Rufus struggles at his bonds then, the metal shackles biting into the delicate skin of his wrists as a set of footsteps moves closer. He steels himself against what might come from the darkness, voice steady, he is, afterall, still Rufus Shinra. ‘What do you want?’

There the soft rasp of a laugh, the acrid burn of cigar smoke in his nostrils, and then the painful brightness of a single overhead lamp as the blindfold is jerked away. Rufus takes in the sight before him. A man of taller stature, larger than even Rude, garishly attired. Definitely one of Corneo’s, but one who's gone rogue. The Don wouldn’t  _ dare _ .

‘Forgive the mess.’ He begins, brushes away what Rufus suspects is brain matter from his cheek. ‘They were just delivery boys. Couldn’t leave too many loose ends, you understand.’ And yes, Rufus does understand. Thinks of his father’s Turks. The one he lost earlier must be looking for him by now, likely has reported his disappearance. Maybe there’s an entire team out on the streets. Unfortunately, the slums are labyrinthine, a series of collapsed tunnels, and alleyways, abandoned structures, scrap yards, even with the best intelligence Shinra can provide, it could be hours, or worse yet days, and Rufus is beginning to fear he hasn’t the luxury of time.

‘You never answered my question.’ There’s the swift movement as he’s abruptly backhanded. Rufus tastes blood.

‘Got to thinking about your daddy’s deal with the Don. How that’s no good for anyone but him. Tired of playing second fiddle to that old lech.’ He leans in close as if to take a look at his handiwork. ‘You make a nice hostage, leverage. Ransom you for control of Wall Market, Corneo’s head on a tray.’

Rufus might have laughed. These criminals were all the same, so very short sighted and sloppy in their execution of their plans. Sure, he’s the one cuffed to a chair in fuck knows where, but it’s shameful the way they’ll just give away their plans, the ‘villain speech’ as if Rufus Shinra gives a fuck about this gutter rat’s ambitions. ‘And when my Turks put a bullet in your head first, what then?’ He’s met with another blow, this time hard enough to make his vision swim, and when his captor moves closer once more, Rufus spits blood back in his face. ‘You think my old man cares enough to strike a deal with you, but you didn’t account for those crows that are going to pick your rotting corpse clean the moment they break down that door.’ He is about to say something more when he feels the chair kicked out from beneath him, and then he's falling, head colliding against the damp cold floor with a sharp crack. Ears ringing, vision tunneling. Fuck, fuck. There’s the sticky flow of blood against his temple, matting pale blonde hair. He hears the switch of a blade, some threat about how they’ll have to take him back in pieces. There’s a gunshot. Rufus flinches. Then a second.

A gloved hand brushes against his face, gently lifting his head as the other undoes the shackles at his wrists, and when he opens his eyes he sees the blurred image of dark hair, and a dark suit, voice calm, reassuring.

‘It’s alright, Sir. You’re safe.’

And as Rufus slips into unconsciousness, he knows he will trust this Turk with his life.

_ Fin _


	2. No. 3: My Way or the Highway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 3: My Way or the Highway

Tseng is familiar enough with hostage situations to know how this goes. One misstep, hesitation, error, and it will go to hell. He knows how to negotiate, how to take that shot when necessary, weighing the risks, his own duty, and expertise as a marksman. Tseng is familiar enough with all of these scenarios to be prepared to deal, but nothing, no amount of training, or expertise has prepared him for this. Rufus Shinra on his knees, a rogue employee’s gun to his head. The horrific tableau before him is enough to make all of that training evaporate, as if he’s an unskilled recruit on his first training mission.

The hostage taker is one Tseng knows only as Montblanc. A seemingly mild mannered mid-tier executive under Scarlet, access to weapon’s development, and more than willing to sell out Shinra secrets to the highest bidder. They had suspected a breach in security, but Montblanc simply had not fit the profile, not until now. Some speech about how his village had been destroyed. Tseng remembers the file. Casualties had been high. The old reactor overdue for repairs when the meltdown had occurred. One third of the village dead, the remaining exposed to high levels of mako poisoning. There had been reparations paid to the surviving families of victims and the village evacuated and quarantined off, but nothing could restore the loss of life. A name change, and a chip on his shoulder, he infiltrated the upper echelon of Shinra bent on undermining their monopoly on the world. Under different circumstances, Tseng supposes he might feel some measure of sympathy for the man, but not with the way he levels a gun at his lover’s head.

Rufus to his credit does not plead or bargain, but Tseng sees the fear in those light eyes. And when his captor jabs the muzzle of the pistol, a Shinra issue Peacemaker, against the line of Rufus’ jaw, he watches the way he flinches, raising a single gloved hand. ‘Wait, wait.’

‘Lower your weapon.’ Tseng’s voice does not waver. In a position such as Montblanc’s there is only one way in which one leaves this situation, and he _knows_. No matter the outcome. Tseng’s only ‘Hail Shiva’ is that Montblanc is careless, inexperienced, and the moment he gives him an opening, it’s over.

But then he’s got Rufus in front of him, head tilted upwards, and when the guns slips along the curve of those lips that Tseng has only recently kissed, he hears the words, ‘Open your mouth like the Shinra whore you are.’ Rufus is defiant as ever; Tseng sees the man’s finger begin to curl around the trigger, he hears the sharp intake of breath, Rufus’ lips parting in a hideous mimicry of the way he might wrap them around Tseng’s cock. And understands that Montblanc is here with the intention to humiliate and terrorize President Shinra’s only legitimate son. Rufus performs admirably well, and when his assailant smiles at his handiwork, it fills Tseng with an inexorable rage.

Rufus chokes then, the barrel shoved down until his lower lip brushes against the trigger guard. If Montblanc pulls the trigger now, no amount of cure materia, or medical attention might save him. He watches carefully as Montblanc for a moment looks down to admire the view, Rufus Shinra debased before him. Tseng takes the opportunity, the shot ringing out in finality. Montblanc is dead before his body can hit the ground, a single bullet clean between his brows. And then he is at Rufus’ side. He will not soon forget the look of horror, the anger, light eyes suddenly too bright in the office lighting, as Rufus stares up at him.

He offers him a perfectly pressed handkerchief, and helps him to his feet, ignoring the way his own hands seem to tremble, the adrenaline, fear.

Rufus says nothing, numbly allowing Tseng to lead him away, not sparing a glance at the body of the terminated would-be assassin. They exchange no words as Tseng escorts him back to his rooms, though his hand does linger on fragile shoulders when they step inside, both waiting for the door to seal shut behind them. At this hour, the apartment is dark, illuminated only by the distant glow of the reactors and reflection of city lights, casting the room in a ghostly green tinged pallor, washing Rufus’ features even paler still.

He lets out the faintest of sighs, and turns away. ‘Leave.’

‘Sir?’

‘Just go.’

‘Rufus.’

He pauses a moment as if to reconsider, dismissing the notion with a slight shake of his head as he snags a decanter and glass of cognac, and Tseng knows he intends to drown his fears in expensive liquor. He does not seem averse to follow suit.

Montblanc had nothing to lose. Of all the criminals and gangsters and terrorists, those with nothing to lose, to be used as collateral, are the most dangerous. Reckless, ill prepared, unconcerned with how many lives they take with them. Tseng looks after Rufus’ retreating form in the darkness, and knows that he could have lost him. He does not follow, but he does not leave as commanded, moving across the room to the polished bar to select an aged bourbon, and pours three finger lengths into a crystal tumbler. He swirls the liquid for a moment before up turning the glass and downing the burning liquor in one swallow. It is an uncommon gesture, rarely taken to drinking on the job, but he desperately needs something to take off the brittle edge, knowing well enough that he could have failed Rufus, that his lover could have been the one to die tonight.

The knowledge leaves with it a bitter aftertaste that no amount of liquor can chase away.

_Fin_


	3. No. 4: Running Out of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No. 4: Running Out of Time

It is here that Rufus Shinra will make his stand, to defend his city against the insurmountable threat of Diamond Weapon, and to remove the barrier above the North Crater. Sister Ray stands ready at his command. It’s a gamble, with three reactors still operating at reduced capacity, but one that Rufus is willing to take. His Turk is at his side, and for that he is grateful. The wound inflicted so very recently by Masamune is still raw and angry and red beneath the wrapped bulk of bandages, but Tseng has insisted that he be here with Rufus when the cannon is fired. It is nothing short of miraculous that he is even here at all, saved from certain death by AVALANCHE in a gesture of goodwill, Vincent Valentine adhering to an old code to protect his fellow Turks even if Shinra had long since abandoned him.

There is the garbled sound of voices across the radio, Heidegger and Scarlet, reading out coordinates, a countdown, Rufus gives the order, and Midgar's lights wink out into a citywide blackout as the power from eight mako reactors is pooled into the cannon. Rufus inhales a breath, and thinks to reach out to take Tseng’s hand. There has been no time for affection between them, Rufus throwing himself into his duties, determined to do his utmost to counter the threat against Midgar, but here in this moment he needs his lover’s support. Together, he had promised, for as long as either can remember. Though together never accounted for this.

A shockwave rocks the entire structure, shattering the lower level windows with its force as the Sister Ray fires once. Rufus tightens his grip on Tseng’s hand, and waits.

_ Sir, Weapon’s been defeated,  _ echoes across the radio, and Rufus exhales, relief washing over him that he’s not failed. He turns to Tseng, victorious, the leader that he has always hoped to be, one worthy of Midgar’s respect, and of Tseng’s. He leans in to brush their lips together in a celebratory kiss, they have faced down this threat and succeeded, and as he pulls back to look into Tseng’s eyes he sees something dark within his gaze.

_ Fear. _

And then Tseng is kissing him once more, his mouth claimed as his lover pours a type of savage passion into the kiss, hands possessive, Tseng holds him close while the world explodes around them in a torrent of shattered glass and blinding light.

Rufus wakes to darkness, the heat of flames, smoke, and fumes, the buzzing spark of dying electronics, and exposed wires. He can feel the chill of the night air, and when he tries to croak out his lover’s name, nothing comes forth but a painful wheeze. ‘Rufus.’ He hears his name, and reaches out blindly, hand searching against jagged shards of glass. He feels the warm touch of Tseng’s fingertips, and the slick sensation of what he suspects is blood. His own. There’s the crackle of voices, the wail of sirens on the streets 70 stories below, and then nothing.

‘Sir.’ He hears the familiar comfort of his lover’s voice permeating the darkness around him, and wills himself to focus. ‘I need you to answer me.’ They’re separated by rubble, he realizes then, only their hands allowed to touch. An ultimate cruelty, that even like this they must remain apart. He swallows around the rawness in his throat, choking on smoke, and manages a faint reply.

‘You stay with me, we’ll get you out.’ Tseng says.

Rufus weakly squeezes his hand.

‘It will be alright, Rufus.’

Had he the strength to spare to laugh, he might have. The absurdity of it all. Tseng’s quiet reassurance even as they both know it’s a lie. They’ll die here, together, in the ruins of his office. He understands now that Tseng had known, seen the energy blast on the horizon, and accepting that there would be no chance of escape, had tried to spare him the knowledge of his failure.

He’s slipping back into unconsciousness when he hears Tseng’s voice again, and for a moment wishes he’d let him go.

‘Rufus. The radio, tell me if you can see it.’

He does laugh this time, a rasping humourless croak. ‘I’m afraid I can’t see much of anything.’ The force of the blast having at least temporarily robbed him of his sight. He can hear the faint buzz of it to his left, lost somewhere among the rubble. Even if he could locate it by sound alone, he grimly accepts he’s pinned here, beneath what he suspects is a toppled column. He draws in a breath. ‘What can you see?’

He thinks he hears a soft mirthful sound. ‘Maybe the stars, Sir.’

In the distance Rufus can hear the drone of a Shinra helicopter, and for the briefest of moments he’s seized with a hope that perhaps he’s mistaken, and they will not die here, that his Turks have come for them. He calls out above the din, Tseng as well, shouting until their voices give out, and they are left with only the sounds of the wind, the soft white noise of the radio, still active, and impossibly far out of reach. He tries to focus on the sound of Tseng’s breathing, the shallow rhythm a comfort.

‘Can you free yourself?’ If there’s even a chance that Tseng might make it off this floor, he’ll order him to take it. And when Tseng does not answer, he knows. ‘Shiva, Tseng.’

‘I won’t leave you. I suspect there's no way off this level that isn’t up.’

‘How badly are you injured. And don’t lie to me.’

‘There’s a lot of blood.’

‘How badly?’

He hears a hiss of pain, and then. ‘My wound has reopened, Sir.’

Rufus starts to say something more when a wracking cough overtakes him, and when it subsides he can taste the metallic tang of blood, and knows that he’s bleeding internally.

‘Rufus?’ Tseng’s voice is panicked, his fingertips straining to touch, and Rufus wishes that he could hold him, that at least they might spend these final terrible moments together.

‘I’m here. I’m … fine.’ The lie slips easily from his lips. If he keeps up this charade at least perhaps Tseng might hold on long enough to be saved. Reno and Rude, and Elena would never leave Tseng to this fate unless it proved impossible to rescue him, and Rufus accepts that if he still manages to save Tseng, then perhaps he’s not failed afterall. He coughs again, this time causing his entire body to seize with the force of it, as blood pours from his lips, and gathers in his throat, choking him. After a while, the tremors subside, and Rufus can feel the wetness of tears leaking from the corner of his eyes, mingling with blood and ash and sweat. ‘I’m sorry.’ He whispers into the stillness. They were supposed to rule Midgar together, Tseng at his side, his most trusted confidante, advisor, friend, and lover. He has brought ruin to them both.

‘I swore an oath when I joined the Turks to die in the service of Shinra if my duty required it.’ Tseng’s voice is low, and tinged with exhaustion. The bloodloss, Rufus suspects. ‘I’ll never regret dying for something more.’ Tseng goes quiet then, and when Rufus calls his name, he’s met only by the faint sound of approaching rotary blades overhead.

_ Fin _


	4. No. 5: Where Do You Think You're Going

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 5: Where Do You Think You're Going

It was never supposed to be this way. The plan perfectly laid, Rufus Shinra out of the building, safe with Reno and Rude while Tseng, tasked with the grim orders to eliminate the President, remains there alone. But they did not account for this. The President firing his weapon, catching Tseng once in the shoulder, another in the gut. Blood staining the white of his perfectly tailored dress shirt, seeping through his suit, gloved hands clutching at the wounds as he staggers out onto the roof. Rufus is there minutes later, Reno and Rude yelling above the din of the rotary blades as he jumps from the helicopter. He shouts something, and falls to his knees at his lover’s side, pulls him close, ‘Tseng.’ He whispers, holding him against his chest, unconcerned with the way the blood soaks into his suit coat, cradles his head in his hands, fingers stroking along Tseng’s cheek. ‘Stay with me. Please.’

Rufus is not one to beg for anything, but when he sees his father there above him, gun leveled at the only man he has ever found the care to love, he falls across his prone form, clings to him, and pleads. If he is to take Tseng, he will have to kill his only legitimate son first. 

Tseng, pale with blood loss, begs him to go, to leave with Reno and Rude. He’s made his choice to follow Rufus, and it has cost him his life. The President’s voice rises above the pounding of blood in Rufus' head commanding his son to move, how he’ll deal with his treachery later, and when Rufus does not, Tseng entreats with him once more, that his life is not worth this. He is a Turk, his duty is to Shinra, and Rufus is Shinra, the only part of it worth following, and he will willingly die for that.

There’s another warning, the sound of a bullet being chambered, and Rufus draws in a lasting breath. ‘Find me.’ He sighs into Tseng’s ear, and closes his eyes.

  
_ Fin _


	5. No. 6: Please ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 6: Please ...

For the past eleven months, he has been preparing for this. A final rite of passage on the way to becoming a Turk before he’s to be sent into field training. Months of arduous work in simulation, the firing range, familiarizing himself with all grades of weapons, hand to hand combat, marksmanship, swordplay, knife work. He’s learned to build up a certain immunity to the effects of status materia, Sleep, Slow, Bind, Veld’s words ringing in his ears,  _ A Turk’s most valued weapon is his mind _ . Reminding him that he must learn to adapt to scenarios where his weapons have been confiscated, his senses overwhelmed by magic, to learn tact, and strategy, to rise above merely being a blunt instrument, a tool. He will become Tseng of the Turks.

He sits alone in a small room, knowing he’s being observed from beyond by Veld, a few Turks, scientists behind the glass of a 2 way mirror, shackled to a chair for his own safety. He tries to remain calm, this is, afterall, simply another bit of training, nothing that his fellow recruits will not be subjected to, and he tells himself that he must trust Veld, the man who has seen something within this 16 year old Wutaian immigrant worth honing, to give him an opportunity to become one of the most feared within Shinra, a future here above the plate. Tseng trusts Veld with his very life, unfortunately Veld isn’t the one here looming before him, a syringe of some glowing liquid poised above an artery.  _ A Turk must trust his superior. Do you trust me, Tseng? _ Yes, he trusts Veld. He must.

But this isn’t Veld.

There’s the prick of pain at his neck. Hojo nearly leers at him as he makes some remark of how it’s best if Tseng tries not to fight it, though it is merely his suggestion, as a scientist. A sluggish feeling slips throughout Tseng’s veins, like he’s been hit with a low grade slow spell.  _ You’ll need to focus yourself internally to fight it. _ He already knows this feeling is to be the least of his worries once the drugs kick in. It’s some concoction made to simulate various status effects, as well as Fire, Ice, Lighting.  _ If you give in, it will tear you apart, Tseng. _ He closes his eyes and tries to focus on his breathing. It comes harder, each breath laborious as if he can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs.

Then the pain sets in. Like white hot quicksilver has been injected into him. And no amount of training has prepared him for the sheer agony of it. His knuckles go white as he clutches against the chair, eyes screwed shut as every instinct tells him to try to fight this, to struggle, and scream, and beg for Veld to help him. But that is not what this training is about. It is a mental test.

Tseng strains against the bonds. Suddenly he’s no longer within the four walls of this sterile lab, the psychedelic properties manifesting around him in creatures that look as if they’ve crawled out of some mako tank down in the depths of the Drum.  _ Focus on what is real. _ He tries to look everywhere but where the slithering tendrils of something he knows isn’t there creep along his forearm, but when a sudden spasm of pain accompanies it, he begins to scream as the creature appears to slip beneath his skin. He screams until he’s hoarse. When it’s over he slumps forward, panting, and once more tries to focus on Veld’s words. His most valued weapon is his mind. If he is to withstand torture, he must overcome these weaknesses, and fears.

He opens his eyes to Hojo leaning over him as if he’s nothing more than another specimen to be dissected and studied. To his left stands Veld, his expression nearly unreadable, and as he undoes the shackles at Tseng’s wrists, he extends a hand, offers him a smile that is almost one of admiration, and says, ‘Welcome to the Turks, Tseng.’

_ Fin _


	6. No. 6 & No. 7: Please ... I've Got You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 6 & No. 7: Please ... I've Got You
> 
> For MeChewChew

They find themselves in a church in Sector 5. Tseng has chosen this location because he knows it to be one of the few places left in Midgar where they might be safe. Overhead he can still hear the sound of rotary blades, the sweeping searchlights filtering through the partially collapsed roof. It is late, so _she_ is not here, safe at home with her adoptive mother, and for that Tseng is thankful, that she will not have to be party to this. Rufus Shinra is at his side, white suit coat discarded to his left, the shirt sleeve rolled half up his right forearm. ‘Do it.’ He orders. And when Tseng hesitates, he curses once. ‘Get it out, for fucksake, Tseng.’ Tseng holds his gaze for a long moment, there’s another pass of the spotlight, Rufus’ features suddenly washed deathly pale by it. He nods, presses a kiss to his brow, and withdraws a small switchblade, and thinks of how he has made this choice, and there will be no going back. They are in this together.

Rufus Shinra, caught up in treacherous dealings with a fledgling terrorist organization, is dragged back to the Shinra building, held in a stark room for questioning. Tseng tasked with the duty of interrogating the young Shinra heir until he might give up the names of his co-conspirators. To use any means at his disposal to extract that information. Rufus sits there in handcuffs, light eyes defiant as ever while Tseng circles about him. He knows they’re being watched, and that if this is to work, then he must make a show of it. He looks to Rufus as if to beg his forgiveness before raising a gloved hand and striking him once across the mouth.

‘You can do better than that.’

He backhands him again, this time hard enough that he draws blood.

‘All you fucking crows are the same. Or should I call you what you truly are, Tseng? An attack dog, trained to kill on command, and to heel at your master’s feet, to lick his boots.’ Even if it’s an act, it stings, causes a low ache to form in his throat, because Tseng knows that part of it at least is true.

He steels himself again, looks into Rufus’ eyes, and fuck, he can’t do it.

‘You’re weak.’ Rufus spits the words like venom. He strikes him again, this time against the back of his head, hard enough that Rufus slumps forward for a moment. Laughter bubbles up from within then, a hideous humourless sound, goading and taunting. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘Sir. I don’t want to hurt you.’ Rufus’ lips are bloodied, hair hanging limply in his eyes, and Tseng can’t do it. Not any longer. He straightens, wipes the blood from his gloves, and exits the room. They’re watching, Veld, the others, maybe even the President himself. Tseng stands there in the hallway to steady his breathing. A guard passes by who offers him the barest of nods as if this is just another day on the job, and Tseng then, looking at his wrist watch, begins to count. They have exactly 97 seconds before the guard makes his next pass. Possibly another 3 minutes before all of Shinra is onto them. Tseng draws in a breath, and steps back inside.

Rufus looks up at him, and smiles.

It’s been 4 hours since they made their escape down into the slums, Rufus’ ankle twisting on some fallen debris in the forgotten underpass, Tseng has practically dragged him to this sector, and now, here, amid the lilies, they will sever their last tie to Shinra. A small microchip set by Hojo beneath the flesh of Rufus’ forearm, a tracking device _for his own safety_ the scientist had assured, and when the young heir had protested in fear, his father had done nothing to prevent it. Rufus had been barely 12. Tseng runs his thumb along Rufus’ wrist, moving upwards higher until he can feel the hard chip. 

‘Do it.’ Rufus’ voice is unwavering, his determination to be free of this life enough to make this temporary suffering worthwhile. A mere moment of unpleasantness, and then the future is theirs, together, free of the shadows of Midgar’s gloom.

Tseng presses the tip of the blade in, ignoring the way dark red blood wells from the cut, and tries not to focus on the sharp intake of breath, the way Rufus for all his resolve is the one who is made to bleed so that they might escape.

‘Get it out!’

Tseng reaches in and withdraws a small square chip stained with his lover's blood, and snaps it in two. And when Rufus goes quiet in his arms, he presses a soft kiss to his temple. ‘I’m sorry. I swear you’ll never bleed for anything again, Sir.’

‘Rufus. Call me by my name.’

Tseng smiles just barely then, and thinks to a name he’s long since given up, a name of a person who had come to Midgar without a past. ‘When we’re free, you can call me by mine.’

_Fin_


	7. No. 8: Where Did Everybody Go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 8: Where Did Everybody Go?

Amid the ruins, he moves as a ghostly spectre, spirit trapped between the world of the living and of the dead, wandering through what remains of the upper levels of the Shinra building. Some days the movements are methodical, completing menial tasks, signing paperwork, approving documents. Others, he seems hostile, angry, confused. On those days Elena cries at times, stifling soft sobs beneath gloved hands. She didn't know him like the others did, didn't have that same history, though remembers what Tseng had told her, and she understands now the fondness that would creep just barely into his eyes when he spoke of the President.

It’s been nearly a year since Rufus Shinra stared down Diamond Weapon in a final effort to save his city, and had died. There was no body to retrieve, and with Meteor threatening to rain down upon their heads, the Shinra hierarchy in shambles, there had been no time for so much as a memorial service, his remains entombed somewhere beneath the rubble. Befitting in many ways that Midgar itself is his mausoleum. But they are all acutely aware of the singular fact that he is not at peace. That his perceived failure has trapped him here.  
  
  


Most days he glides through the halls, a shadow of white, insubstantial. He pauses sometimes, as if he is looking for something, or perhaps more aptly _someone_. He waits for an elevator that never comes, a message that Midgar has been saved, and a report that his lover has been found alive.

They call out to him but there is no recognition, no indication that he might still hear and see them. Reno and Rude seem to be mostly unbothered by his presence, though Reno occasionally quips that he pities him, wishes he’d just move on, because it can’t be good for him to be stuck here. Suggests that maybe they need to hire a psychic, see if they can get the kid to let go. But Rufus Shinra has always been so damnably stubborn that Rude suspects even if they did, he’d somehow convince them that he needed to remain here.

Elena tries to give him space, won’t go onto the floors where the other two have reported seeing him while they scout for important documents and files for Reeve Tuesti’s new pet project, the World Regenesis Program. There is something rather eerie about seeing the ghost of your former boss’s boss, and admittedly former boss’s lover flitting around the decimated building in which one used to work.

It’s their final scouting mission. Elena sits huddled against the cold while Reno and Rude venture deeper into the building. She knows well enough that she’s not alone, not entirely. She sees him there, moving about the hall before he crumples to the ground and seems to sob, out of frustration, perhaps grief. She’s heard it spoken that the Lifestream cannot take those who still cling to their former lives, and Rufus Shinra is living out past memories as if hoping he might somehow make it right.

‘Mr President.’ Her voice falters just slightly, as she moves closer to him. ‘I know you’re waiting for Tseng. I waited a long time, too. But, but he’s gone, Sir.’ Surely Tseng would have had little to cling to in this world, and would have gladly given himself up to the comforting embrace of the Lifestream.

For the first time, the ghost acknowledges her, piercing light eyes nearly gazing through her soul.

‘So you can hear me.’ Elena muses, and tells herself that she’s not afraid. This is simply Rufus Shinra, after all. He may have been a man who was admittedly formidable in life, but here in death he seems to be nothing more than a lost child. ‘You can rest, you know. The planet was saved.’ She thinks to Midgar then, to Tuesti, the way that Rufus’ stand against Weapon had bought them time, given them the opportunity to evacuate the city. ‘You saved Midgar, Sir. The people were able to leave. You didn’t fail.’ His expression seems to soften at her words. ‘Some people might even say you’re like one of those heroes from mythology. Sacrificing yourself to defeat a monster. To save your city.’ The spectre dissipates, and she exhales a long sigh of relief only moments before the hair on the back of her neck begins to prickle and the air around her suddenly goes a few degrees colder. When she turns, Rufus Shinra is beside her, eyes searching. ‘We’ll be okay. You did your best, and we’re all here. You can rest now.’ And when the ghost hesitates, she adds very softly, ‘I’m certain Tseng’s waiting for you, Sir.’

  
The phantom fades into a soft shimmery mist, and for the first time since entering the building this night, Elena feels warm. She looks toward the forms of Reno and Rude emerging, and smiles. ‘I think we should head home.’ And as the three leave together, arms and hands linked together, braced against the cold, she sees the soft wisp of black and white out of the corner of her eye, and knows that the three of them are going to be alright, watched over from the beyond.

_Fin_


	8. No. 8: Isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 8: Isolation

It is late afternoon when Rufus Shinra is made to say goodbye to Midgar. It is not the only home he has known, so much of his life spent away at expensive private schools, or on long holidays, but now as he looks across the skyline set alight by the hazy sunlight, he knows that in his life there exist only two loves. Midgar, the city he believes he is destined to rule, and the man who stands at his right, with orders to take him away from this place. It’s a small affair, Heidegger looking smug with delight as the young heir is stripped of his power and led along the helipad to meet his judgment. His father spares him not a word, light eyes disapproving, but otherwise emotionless. Rufus wonders if he’d ordered his death with the same indifference.

‘Sir.’ His Turk offers him the barest of nods, still respectful, as if he’d not tried to get them all killed. Rufus takes his gloved hand, accepting his assistance into the helicopter, and for a moment thinks that Tseng’s hand lingers just a fraction too long. He watches Midgar fall away beneath him as they rise in a controlled ascent above the city, the skyline suddenly blinding in its brilliance. He takes a final lasting glance, and turns away. His own ambitions and dreams fading away into the haze. Tseng says nothing, hands steady on the controls. No longer lover, but Turk, assassin, killer, loyal to Shinra, his father, and whatever has existed between them means nothing, not in the wake of Rufus’ betrayal. He longs to speak, but he will not apologize, not for his treachery, nor his inability to trust. He knows this is one-sided at best. Tseng never seeing him as more than duty, the President’s son, a fuck to find release in. And Rufus too blind and too ambitious to realize he had been in love. That he still is in love. He resents the way his chest aches with it, and when he turns just slightly to take in Tseng’s features highlighted by the sun, he accepts that he has brought this upon himself.

The sun is low on the horizon when they land in Junon, washing them both in dark shadows against a crimson sky. Tseng turns to leave, there will be officers here shortly to escort Rufus to where he is to be imprisoned under house arrest. Rufus utters one word, ‘Please.’ And when Tseng stops, he continues, ‘Please, don’t go.’

Tseng sighs, but does not meet his gaze. Rufus reaches out, fingers brushing along the cuff of a dark sleeve. He does turn then, eyes dark, furious, ‘Don’t go?’ Rufus braces himself as if he might strike him. It’s nothing he does not deserve. He had so carelessly nearly signed his death warrant. ‘You’re an insolent short sighted brat who cares for nothing but yourself. How dare you.’

‘Tseng--’

He turns, refusing to spare Rufus a single look, and makes his way back to the helicopter.

‘Please. I’m--’ He looks after his former lover, silhouetted against the setting sun, and thinks how hopeless this situation is, how he has irreparably ruined their chances to be together, to rule Midgar as one. ‘I love you.’

Tseng stills, and for the briefest of moments Rufus dares to believe he has found a way to turn Tseng to his cause, to make an ally out of him even now, to gain that loyalty and trust. ‘I don’t love you.’ Rufus feels as if the air has been knocked out of his lungs. How _dare_ this Turk refuse his love. As Tseng leaves him there alone on the tarmac, Rufus Shinra understands that no one could ever love someone such as he.

He is led away by Shinra military guards down a long dimly lit corridor. They reach the door to where he accepts he’ll spend his confinement. He’s ’s met with a stark windowless cell. No. It must be some mistake. He turns to the officer at his side, light eyes suddenly distrusting. ‘I was told I was to have an apartment. House arrest. Not--’ There are rooms here, but not luxury, little light, none of the comforts of home, or the lifestyle in which he is used to.

‘These were the President’s orders, Sir.’ His voice is almost sympathetic. ‘If you will.’

He thinks for a moment to flee, though the likelihood of making it more than a few steps down that hall seems unlikely, and anyway, what might he try to escape to? He has no home, no family, no lover. Rufus steps through the threshold with little protest, and when the lock slides into place behind him he collapses, curls into himself, and screams until his voice gives out.

Rufus finally composes himself, he wanders about the space that is now his prison, grey walls, bare concrete floors, dim thready light that seems to be on a timer, a bedroom, small kitchen, living space, and bathroom. A containment room, for those exposed to mako, to be monitored during their recovery. It’s the most hideous joke his father might have pulled, and the ultimate cruelty to a son whose greatest unspoken fear is isolation, abandonment.

He walks into the small bathroom to splash some water on his face, and as he catches his reflection in the mirror, face a mask in feigned indifference, he thinks to Tseng’s words. _I don’t love you._ The sudden pain in his hand, and the steady drip of blood against the porcelain sink are the only thing that alerts him to the fact that he has smashed the glass, sending fragments across the bathroom floor, his misshapen reflection staring back at him in hundreds of mirrored facets. He takes one, and drags it along the line of his wrist, then the other. If he is to be a prisoner here, then he will make his jailers regret the day they found Rufus Shinra in their care.

When he is found, he’s bled all over his designer white clothing, lips ashen, so much blood loss that the guards fear he’s too far gone. He smiles just barely at the thought, how his father might spin this, the truth always will find its way out, and when it does, Rufus might still yet have his vengeance.

He wakes up in the infirmary, wrists wrapped in gauze, vitals closely monitored by machines. No reprimand or word of concern comes from his father, and in a few short hours, Rufus is returned to his cell.

Simple meals arrive twice a day, he is visited three times a week by an officer, the only company he receives, and each Thursday a maid comes to clean the space, change the linens, and retrieve his laundry. The schedule is maddening. As the weeks wear on, the isolation more so. There’s little in the way of reading material, no music, entertainment, alcohol. A month after his imprisonment he receives a pre-recorded video call from his father stating that since his son has not valued his esteemed position and attempted to take what already has been his, he is to live without all the luxury and freedom and celebrity Shinra has afforded him. There is no mention of how long this punishment is to last, only that it is his intention to break him so that he might be a more filial son.

One evening a guard sent to him catches his eye. Tall, slim, with dark hair and eyes, Wutaian. And it makes him long for Tseng. It goes against every bit of protocol and could earn the guard a dishonourable discharge, but when Rufus Shinra begs to suck his dick, he undoes his fatigues and shoves his cock down his throat, thrusting until Rufus is choking on it, as he comes he does so all over the Shinra heir’s face, looks down at him debauched on his knees, and quickly tucks himself away and makes a hasty retreat.

  
After that night, Rufus never sees him again.

He finds another who is willing to fuck him. Not a one time thing. He’s not Rufus’ type, burly, with rough hands and an even rougher beard, but the way he bends him over and thrusts into him until Rufus is moaning and pleading makes up for those aesthetic differences. He visits him twice a week on the nights the officer does not for four months until one day he announces as Rufus lays splayed across the bed fucked out that he’s being deployed. Some tour near Wutai. He gives that pert ass a hard slap, laughs, makes some quip about how he’ll never forget the way Rufus Shinra moans like a 2000 gil whore, and disappears from his life.

The next few months are spent alone. The pass he makes at an officer is met with a reprimand, though he sees the way the man stares at him, and knows it’s only for fear of his own career that he doesn’t take him up on his offer.

He receives another video call. This time a live feed. His father looks smugly pleased as cigar smoke curls around his face. ‘How are you enjoying your accommodations, boy?’ He thinks for a moment to antagonize him, tell him of all the sordid little situations he’s gotten himself into, taking cock from enlisted men. The President cares little of his predilection toward men, but those men are expected to be powerful, well connected, discreet, not some common recruit who might tell all the world that they had Rufus Shinra on his knees.

‘Oh, the view could be better. But I suspect you know that.’

His father’s laugh is humourless as the video feed cuts out.

Another month passes, the winter holidays judging by the way those who visit him do so less frequently, and those who are around seem rather in a hurry to have their duties over and done with. On the New Year, he finds two guards to fuck him while everyone else is distracted by the festivities. They take turns filling him, and when that's not enough he takes one from behind while the other puts his mouth to good use. It's the most alive he's felt in months.

On his 26th birthday, Rufus sits alone amid the stark walls of his prison, and stares at the small cake the maid has smuggled in. She offers him a look of sympathy, and Rufus finds himself torn between being touched and vaguely disgusted by the gesture. He’s not had a birthday in 14 years. He tosses the cake into the bin when she leaves, curls into himself on the bed, and tries to not think of his past. To his mother’s voice across a shaky phone connection assuring him that they would celebrate his birthday once she flew home, and how much she missed him, and to behave and be kind to his father. _He truly does love you, my dear._ Rufus makes a soft mirthless sound at that. Love, what could his old man possibly know about love?

What could _he_ possibly know.

It’s been nineteen months when he sees him again. Tseng. He’s here to _assess_ Rufus, to report back to the President their progress, but when he is led down the corridor to the place that he believes to be Rufus’ apartments, he’s met with that same stark cell. He calls out his name once, gives the guard a look of concern and enters alone.

‘Sir?’

Rufus is huddled into a corner at the head of the bed, eyes staring off. Tseng speaks his name again. 

Rufus looks up at Tseng, takes in the sight of him. His hair is longer now, demeanour professional, as is expected of the man who has taken up the mantle of Director of Administrative Research. He supposes he should be proud that Tseng has achieved so very much.

‘Shiva, what is this place?’

Rufus laughs once, darkly. ‘Don’t you know?’

Realization washes over Tseng’s features. This is where Rufus has been kept by his father for these long months. ‘Sir, I didn’t--’

‘My old man wanted to teach me a lesson, or so he says.’ He stands then, for the first time allowing Tseng to see how very pale, and gaunt he has become during this isolation. ‘It wasn’t all so terrible, not always.’ He looks positively wicked. ‘I found the guards were happy to fuck me if I asked nicely. I suppose I hoped that would make you jealous, but maybe I’m just a bit of a whore.’

He watches the way Tseng’s posture seems to go rigid.

‘Oh don’t worry, they all wore protection. I think they were more worried that I was like my old man and slept with half of the slums.’ He muses a little. ‘If only they knew it was just you.’

‘Sir.’

Rufus shakes his head a little as if amused with himself. ‘Tell me, Tseng of the Turks. _Director_ Tseng. Why are you here?’

‘I have orders to report back on your--’

‘My what? My sanity? My spirit? Tell the old bastard all I’ve ever known is isolation, he should have sent you to kill me, instead.’

‘Rufus.’

He laughs, as if this is somehow now his own private joke, and Tseng is the punchline. ‘Tell the bastard I’m coming for him. Maybe not this year, or the next, he can keep me locked away here, but he can’t do it forever. I’ll get on my knees for every single officer Shinra has if that’s what it takes. One of them _will_ unlock that door, and let me go, and when I do, I’ll raise an army against him for what he’s done.’

Tseng says nothing, but he holds his gaze a long while, before offering him the slightest nod and turning away.

When Rufus emerges some while later, he finds the door unlocked.

_Fin_


	9. No. 9: For the Greater Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 9: For the Greater Good

It is the simplest thing to take a life. It’s not his first, though he’s never been quite this ‘hands on’ in the manner of that taking. Occasionally a test subject won’t make it through the experiments, but they are often people he’s taken from the slums, nameless, faceless, uncared for, and unmissed. Hojo has never had a specimen quite this extraordinary to do with as he pleases. A necessary sacrifice, he tells himself, and when Lucrecia shrieks, turns away from the ashen corpse sprawled across the floor, he comforts her, whispers treachery of how Vincent Valentine would expose them all, shut the project down, and then all their years of dedicated research will be for naught.

Every religion requires some form of ritual sacrifice, this is theirs. And as he drags the sharp blade of his scalpel along Vincent’s collarbone, the V of his sternum, he chuckles to himself. The notion that a Turk has a conscience, that of the lot of them, this bloodless, hired killer is the one who dares to judge them, and preach about morality. Hojo has never much cared for morals, they hinder progress, research, science, if this project is to succeed, there can be no fear of what is right, and what is wrong, only what is forward. And _this_ , this creature they’ve found, whose DNA they have spliced and injected into an embryo, to create a god, a new religion, is their future. The promise of something more, greater than Shinra, greater than any of them.

He peels back the flesh, peers under Vincent’s skin, and sneers at the weakness there. He is, afterall, only human. But Hojo will give him the gift of something more. Another life, a future, as something not quite human, existing between the spaces of the living and the dead, immortal and ageless. He slices and pokes, injecting compounds of mako, splicing his DNA with those of monsters, and when he is done, he stitches him back up, presses a kiss to that cold clammy brow, and eases Vincent into a mako tank. He’ll need power to revive him, and mako to heal, and when Vincent emerges, he will be something different, something magnificent. A type of god himself.

_Fin_


	10. No. 10, No. 11, & No. 12: I Think I've Broken Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 10, No. 11, & No. 12: I Think I've Broken Something

It is a routine mission, minor terrorist activity reported near Reactor 1, a resurgence of some splintered faction of AVALANCHE setting small explosives, nothing out of the ordinary. Reno and Rude are on a mission to apprehend whoever they find, bring them in for questioning so that they may extract intel to put an end to this eco-terrorist organization once and for all. Tseng waits near the reactor core. A gunshot ricochets nearby. Movement above on the landing. Tseng levels his peacemaker at the dark figure, and takes the shot, two rounds hitting home, as the target crumples to the metal grating. He makes a cool ascent, steps cautious, calculated, gun still trained on the form as he approaches. There is always the possibility of body armour, that the terrorist is lying in wait to spring an ambush. But as he steps closer, something feels hideously wrong. And as he reaches out, gloved hand brushing against a finely tailored black trenchcoat, he _knows_.

Rufus Shinra.

Tseng is on his knees then. ‘Sir.’ His breathing is laboured, lips already stained with bright crimson, and knows that he has hit a lung. ‘Sir, look at me.’ Rufus does, pupils wide with shock. ‘Rufus.’ He isn’t even supposed to be here in Midgar. Tseng dials for medical support, that there’s a man down, to come as quickly as possible.

‘There was a bomb.’ Rufus manages, struggling to hold his lover’s gaze. ‘Didn’t want you to--’ It had been a warning shot, to draw Tseng away from the explosion. And Tseng had seen nothing but a dark form, silvery blonde hair masked by the shadows, and fired carelessly, so sure of his target.

He works at the buttons of Rufus’ trenchcoat with trembling hands. Two shots near the left lung, too low to have hit his heart, but he knows without proper medical attention, that hardly matters. His pallor is already ashen, eyes unfocused. Tseng casts a cure spell, enough to possibly momentarily stem the blood loss, but it is simply not enough to save him. ‘Sir.’ He repeats, angling Rufus’ body to aid his lungs struggling to expand, and tries not to focus on the sickening hiss of air with each breath he takes.

‘I wanted to tell you.’ Rufus begins, hand weakly taking Tseng’s. ‘Was going to. Thought it might cause enough trouble, my old man would--’

‘Shiva.’ He understands. This attack has been orchestrated by the Vice President in another attempt to destabilize his father’s rule. The codes. The _fucking_ reactor codes. ‘Don’t you do this to me.’ Tseng thinks to that time those years before when Rufus did not trust him enough, had not made him party to his scheming, to spare him the implication of being an accessory to that treachery were he to fail. It nearly shattered whatever existed between them. And now. He looks down at Rufus trembling, the shock settling in, never so much as grazed by a bullet before now. He repeats his name again, vision blurring around the sudden onset of tears. Tseng is not a man of many outward emotions, keeping them locked away within himself as a type of defense, but here as the man who he swore to protect with his very life bleeds out in his arms, it feels as if they are a raging torrent.

‘I wanted to rule it with you.’ Rufus goes quiet then. Tseng watches through tears as the light slips from those eyes, and the only man he has ever loved stills in his arms.

Tseng spends the next few days in a daze. The official report is that Rufus Shinra had been kidnapped by AVALANCHE, and shot by a fleeing terrorist to provide a distraction. Whether the President believes the story, it’s as good a lie as any. His only legitimate son barely holding on at Saint Shiva’s Hospital. The bullets had punctured his left lung, shattering 3 ribs, one lodging itself against his spine. It was a risky operation, and when the surgeon emerged 8 hours later, he had given Heidegger the news that the Vice President might never walk again, provided he awakened at all.

Tseng sits alone in the darkness of his lover’s penthouse, drowning his guilt in the expensive bourbon Rufus keeps for him, trying his best to ignore the high pitched whines from Darkstar as if she somehow knows that her beloved master is fighting for his life. She had been found outside the Reactor, always loyal, and when Rufus Shinra had been led away on a stretcher to be airlifted out, it had taken both Reno and Rude to stop her from leaping into the transport. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, tracking the hours by the way the sickle of the moon slides across the sky.

Traitor or not, Tseng has nearly murdered his lover, his charge, the future of Shinra in an act of carelessness. So certain that the person he was firing at was a terrorist. Reno tries to persuade him to go to him, to talk to Rufus, even if he cannot hear him. But Reno doesn’t know why Tseng refuses, and when he calls him a cold bastard, Tseng cannot find it within himself to disagree.

During his time at Shinra, Tseng must admit that he has committed hideous acts without a second thought, that he has dishonoured himself, and at times betrayed those around him. Nothing might have prepared him for this. If Rufus Shinra dies, then it is the simplest route of being less cautious on routine missions, recklessly throwing himself into harm’s way in the hopes that an errant bullet will eventually find him, to die in the service and memory of Shinra. But if Rufus lives, what then?

He takes a long drink, savouring the way the liquor burns its way down his throat and numbs his senses, and thinks of what monstrous things he might ask of Hojo to save his lover’s life. Would he subject him to such acts for his own selfishness?

Yes, he thinks, downing the last of his bourbon, he would sell both their souls.

Twelve days later Tseng finds Rufus Shinra silhouetted against the moonlight, Darkstar at his side. And when he crosses the room to pull his lover into a kiss, he pretends not to notice the faint glow of something behind light eyes.

_Fin_


	11. No. 13: Breathe In Breathe Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 13: Breathe In Breathe Out

The sun sits low in the sky, casting the white sandy shores of Cala de Sirena in purple tinged shadows. It’s been nearly 7 years since Tseng has last been here. Before the end of the world. Things had somehow seemed simpler then. He recalls having brought Rufus here one afternoon on a drive up the coast from the villa, and how they had swam together in the sparkling water, and walked along the rocky shoreline, and when they had kissed Rufus tasted of saltwater and sunshine. One of the truly beautiful memories of their time together, that long lazy August when they had stolen away to Costa Del Sol’s beaches, and spent hours relearning one another’s bodies. He recalls how Rufus confessed his love, and the regret that tinged those words. How he had not had the courage to say it back. Love complicated things.

He thinks of how he had given up on love. Cast it aside along with his name, his identity. There had been one, back during his earliest days as a recruit. He remembers the way their golden hair shimmered in the sunlight, and the colour of their eyes. And how here off these shores, he lost them.

Tseng, having passed his mental and physical evaluations, sent into the field to learn basic combat, survival, flight training, and underwater diving. Costa a reprieve from the smoggy skies of Midgar, a two week aquatic training course. During the nights they all go out drinking, still young, reckless, and Veld grudgingly willing to allow them to enjoy this moment. They are named Ridel. A beautiful wisp, with delicate features and a coy smile. Their second night here, Tseng shares a drink with them, then another, until they’re laughing together beneath the silvery light of a waxing moon.

It means nothing. They are simply two rookie Turks, but when Tseng looks at Ridel, he feels the spark of something more, an emotion he’s not experienced since his first boyfriend kissed him in some alley way in Sector 5 little less than a year prior. The relationship ended disastrously, the boy being called home to Junon by his family, and all Tseng’s idle fancy of a future together evaporating. He remembers crying alone in his bunk, how Veld had found him there, and told him that if he is to become a Turk, he must put aside that emotion, and learn to exist in a world without the weakness of love. He is still just seventeen, and his eyes wander. If Veld notices, he says nothing, and when he meets with Ridel the following night for more drinks, he begins to consider that perhaps his mentor is mistaken. There is no future with someone not like them, but what of a future with someone who understands what it is to be a Turk, to share those experiences together. It makes his heart flutter, and when Ridel looks at him beneath long dark lashes, he feels the heat of a creeping flush 5 seconds before he’s puking his guts out all over the sandy beach. He learns then that he’s not much for the strong Motril the locals seem to prefer.

They spend the following day running patrols on a small gunboat, and that night they return to that same beachfront bar to drink, passing a small cigarillo between themselves, and as the lilting guitar swells, he thinks that he would very much like to kiss Ridel. The moment is interrupted by the sound of fireworks overhead, his fellow rookies celebrating a few meters away on the beach with loud, boisterous pyrotechnics.

The following day it is routine dive training. There are old wrecks off the coast of Cala de Sirena, the rocks and reef having long proven to be treacherous to seafarers. It makes the ideal place for underwater retrieval. Tseng gives Ridel a smile before sliding backwards into the crystal blue waters. There’s a series of packages down within the depths of a sunken destroyer simulating valuable data, but Tseng soon finds the ship's interior to be labyrinthine. Compartments rusted out and covered in marine life, dozens of portholes still intact, ladders, and metal spiral staircases. He checks his oxygen gauge, and ventures further within. He’s at the 45 minute marker when he finds his quarry, and makes a cautious return to the surface. And as he waits on the dive boat, lulled by the soft lap of waves against the hull, he feels the first twinge of apprehension. Ridel still has not returned. Another half hour, and Tseng  _ knows _ .

He waits at the cove, staring out across the waves as the sun slips further below the horizon, and when at long last Ridel’s body is retrieved, he feels nothing. He returns to that same bar where they have shared so few short memories and drinks himself sick, until Veld is the one to finally drag him back to base. He never cries, not a single tear, for they were not anything more, and he cannot afford to expend his emotions so frivolously. 

Tseng gently lays a yellow lily against the tide, watches as the waves carry it off, and returns home to the villa. Rufus Shinra waits for him on the veranda, with a bottle of madeira, and two glasses. Tseng takes him into his arms, holding him close, and thinks for a moment of a life that was never his, and how as imperfect as this thing between he and Rufus is, his place will forever be here. That he is wholly, undeniably in love.

_ Fin _


	12. No. 14: Is Something Burning?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 14: Is Something Burning?

In the end, all she will remember is the flames. The feel of the heat on her face, the stench of burning flesh in her nostrils. There are voices around her, two men in dark suits to her right, another to the left. Shinra. She wants to scream, to cry out for her father, but nothing comes forth but a weak sob. And then darkness.

Tifa doesn’t like to think of that day any longer, here in the aftermath of the end of the world. There is too much pain associated with what little remains of her memories of Nibleheim, and afterall, she’s found a new family here in the shadow of Midgar. Barrett, Marlene, Denzel, and then there’s as always Cloud. That one constant she’s not quite been able to shake. He splits his time between Edge, his courier service, and running the odd mercenary job around the eastern continent. There is still money to be made fighting off monsters, and Cloud has developed a bit of a reputation. One doesn’t kill Sephiroth--thrice--without gaining a bit of notoriety.

Most days Tifa finds herself at the bar, customers as happy to drink now as they ever were back in the Sector 7 slums. And as she hangs a water colour of the old place on the wall behind the bar, she smiles, and thinks that for the first time in a long while, she’s found happiness.

The jangle of bells at the door alert her to a patron. It’s a bit early in the day for drinks, but she supposes many people still have reason to. She turns, ready to greet them with a smile when her eyes settle on the form of one very tall Turk, and narrow.

‘Rude.’

‘Tifa.’ He offers her the slightest of nods. All their differences aside, he’s always been the most respectful of the lot toward her.

‘Partner ran off after some loose chocobo, thought I’d stop in and see the new place.’

The part of her that is still AVALANCHE, the woman who watched her town burn to the ground, wants to tell him to get the hell out of her bar, but when he takes his sunglasses off, setting them reverently onto the polished bartop, she is seized by the suddenly memory of those flames, the choking smoke, the way she had been the only known survivor outside of her sensei, and those dark suits.

‘What will it be? Inventory isn’t what it used to be, but I’ve got some nicer stuff from Corel.’ She offers as she turns away, already retrieving the bottle from the top shelf. She pours him a glass, neat, and after a moment's hesitation one for herself. They share a toast, Tifa savouring the burn of it against her tongue. Not as good as what she suspects Shinra’s ilk are accustomed to even now--Rufus Shinra must have stores upon stores of expensive alcohol just stashed away--but it’s the finest she’s tasted in years.

She pours them both another, and props herself up against the bar, dark eyes fixed on Rude’s. ‘You always were an odd one.’

‘What can I say, I’ve got a bit of a conscience.’

‘No, it’s something more.’ She ponders, lips pressed against the hard curve of her glass. ‘You were there, weren’t you. On the day Nibleheim burned.’

‘Might’ve been.’

She smiles just a little at that. ‘See, what I remember is my old sensei telling me he pulled me out of the reactor, brought me to Midgar. But I think  _ you _ had something to do with that.’

Rude takes a long drink of his whiskey, gloved hand reaching out to retrieve his sunglasses, when Tifa stops him, fingers curling over his. ‘I remember you. Thought it was a dream, or a nightmare. But I remember the three of you.’ Tseng, Reno, him, there in a haze. ‘They were following orders. But you--’

‘A lot of people died that day.’ Shinra finishing off the ones left. He doesn’t sound at all proud of it, even if he had been there solely to oversee the cover-up. ‘Didn’t seem right to let a girl so brave not have a fighting chance’

_ Fin _


	13. No. 15: Into the Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 15: Into the Unknown

Of Tseng’s many sins, he accepts there will be no absolution for _this._ Hojo asks for nothing in return, taking a long look at the unconscious form of the Vice President, and smiling as if he’s long waited to drag his scalpel along that pale flesh, to see how a true Shinra might react to having their DNA spliced with the very creatures they've given him the funding to exploit. He looks nearly giddy with it, withered hands smoothing along the expanse of Rufus Shinra’s chest, ghosting across the two bullet wounds, the line of a surgical scar still in the earliest stages of healing.

‘Magnificent. Simply magnificent.’

Tseng feels as if he might be sick, the roiling nausea rising, choking bile in his throat.

‘I know you Turks aren’t squeamish, but if I may suggest--’

‘No.’ The word is final, firm. His actions have brought them here, and he refuses to leave Rufus alone with Hojo unsupervised. ‘I ask you to save him, not _change_ him.’

Hojo laughs then, as he feels for a vein. ‘I’m afraid he’ll never quite be who he was.’

Tseng thinks to call it off, to take his chances with medicine and cure materia, and _faith_. He looks at Rufus stretched out before them, so very pale, lips ashen, chest rising and falling simply because science has willed it to, and knows that he is dying. He brushes gloved fingertips along the faint scar at Rufus’ wrist, and Tseng can’t find it within himself to cope with saying goodbye. Not like this. ‘Do what it takes.’ _Just save him_.

Hojo goes about his work as if this is simply another routine day in the lab, humming a soft cheery tune as he fills a syringe with some glowing green liquid. Mako, perhaps. Tseng cannot be certain. He taps it twice to release any air trapped inside, and injects it into Rufus’ arm. There is no response.

‘Just a primer.’ Hojo muses, lifting something far more sinister looking, a murky dark substance swirling within a phial. ‘I’d suggest you try to restrain him.’

Tseng does, hands firmly locked around Rufus’ wrists. The next injection causes Rufus’ entire body to seize up, the dark liquid running through his veins as an inhuman scream tears itself from his throat, trembling and spasming in Tseng’s grasp, while Hojo looks on dispassionately as if he’s nothing more than another specimen upon which he may experiment. After a while, he quiets, body going limp against the cold steel surface, and Tseng fears that they are too late.

‘I’ve brought men back from the dead, Turk.’ Hojo lifts one eyelid, then the other as he shines a small light beneath them to see if the pupils still dilate, before moving across his lab to retrieve something more from a cryo-safe. “Pity, truly, that he got himself caught up in all that terrorist business. I saw the reports.’ He pauses then, rattling a test tube in one hand. ‘Two bullets fired from a Shinra issue peacemaker, with a serial number registered to the Department of Administrative Research. Strange.’

For a moment Tseng looks as if he might throttle the old creep, rid Shinra of all this hideous research, that perhaps Rufus’ life is worth the forfeit, to ensure that no others suffer at Hojo’s hands.

‘I suspect if I ran the numbers, that serial number would match _your_ firearm.’ When Tseng does not answer, Hojo glares at him from behind wire rim glasses. ‘Now I suggest you get out of my lab, and let me work.’

Tseng makes it as far as the lavatory on the 68th floor before he doubles over and vomits nothing but bile into the sink. He rinses his face, mouth, watches whatever he had left in his guts vanish down the drain. He lifts his head, and peers at his reflection in the mirror, eyes shadowed with lack of sleep, lids still swollen from the private tears he sheds when he’s alone and the guilt and sorrow and fear of losing Rufus becomes too much to bear. He wonders what monster Hojo will give him as a replacement, if he’ll be a soulless doll who looks and sounds like Rufus Shinra, but lacks all of the nuance, the humanity, the capacity to love. It fills him with a type of loathing knowing that he’ll take whatever he can if it means he won’t be left here to spend this existence alone.

_Fin_


	14. No. 16, No. 17: I Didn't See That Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 16, No. 17: I Didn't See That Coming

During that first week, Tseng is a man obsessed, hands and lips trailing along the curve of Rufus’ neck, across his chest, fingers tracing the faint scarring as a mouth teases at a nipple, moving lower still against bullet wounds, the small line of an incision. He presses a kiss to the sharp of a hipbone before leaning down and taking Rufus’ straining cock into his mouth. Rufus arches beneath him, and sighs, hips rocking gently upwards as Tseng runs his tongue along the length, head moving in a steady rhythm while Rufus' slender fingers find their way into dark strands.

One hand braced against the mattress, the other fumbles with his belt, unfastening his trousers, and palming his stiffening cock. He moves in one fluid motion, swallowing Rufus to the root, before pulling away, and crawling back up along his lover’s body to press their hips together, the delicious friction of it sending a jolt of pleasure through him. There’s a glass toy already resting tightly inside his lover's ass, and each movement drives it against that bundle of nerves that he knows Rufus loves to be stimulated. He thrusts his cock down, enjoying the soft moans and sighs that slip from those bite swollen lips. And as he loses himself in the pleasure of his lover’s body, it’s easy to pretend that nothing has changed between them.

For now Tseng is content to believe his fears have been for nothing. Hojo is a man who enjoys conducting himself with a rather unsettling mannerism, vague threats colouring his repertoire, and if he truly did suspect Tseng’s involvement in how Rufus Shinra had come to be shot twice, he intended to use it to intimidate him. Aside from the faint glow within those painfully blue eyes, it is as if Rufus is the same. Though much has changed since that fateful night in Reactor 1.

The eco-terrorists working with Rufus had managed to take out two more reactors, resulting in the President ordering the plate to be dropped onto Sector 7, where the rebels were said to have had support and kept their base of operations. It had been a miserable business, hundreds dead, more unaccounted for or displaced, and for what? Less than 48 hours later, Rufus’ father had been found dead, stabbed clean through the heart with a blade Tseng long believed to have been lost in the burning of Nibleheim. By the time Rufus was cleared and released, his father had already been interred in the family crypt.

There has been no official inauguration, Rufus still in the latter stages of recovery, and advised to travel as little as possible. He is the future of Shinra, after all. The only living legitimate heir.

Tseng speeds up his movements, voice low as he purrs out the name, ‘Mr. President.’ And feels the hot rush of Rufus’ cum between them, slicking his own cock as he takes it in hand, and works himself to release. He holds Rufus close in the aftermath, listening to the soft beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, willing the creeping fear that weighs upon him, and the even heavier guilt, to subside.

It is the early hours before dawn when he wakes, hands moving along the bedsheets to find Rufus gone. He slides on his pyjama bottoms. Cautiously retrieving his holster and slinging it over one arm, he moves quietly toward the bedroom door.

Rufus stands against the dim mako light of Midgar, form ghostly pale as he stares out across the city. Tseng has found him like this, many times before, but this night, it feels _off_. ‘Sir?’ Tseng’s voice is very quiet, as if approaching a frightened animal, heartbeat thunderous in his chest.

Rufus turns then, the light catching aristocratic features, and smiles.

‘Rufus.’

The movement is swift, fingers clutching at Tseng’s jaw as he’s pressed firmly against the window. Rufus leans in, lips brushing against the shell of his ear for the briefest of moments. His eyes are aglow, with the taint of mako, and something _more_. Something hideous, inhuman. Tseng barely has time to process what he’s seen before Rufus’ fingers are clamped against his throat. They are no strangers to breathplay, Rufus often whining in pleasure as he leans into a gloved hand during intercourse, but this is different. There’s no love in the touch, no trust, and as Rufus squeezes tighter, Tseng reaches up in an attempt to pry his hand away. ‘Rufus. Sir. Please--’

Rufus leans in close, tongue tracing along the line of his carotid artery, before suddenly withdrawing with scream so primal Tseng has only ever heard it from those poor creatures Hojo keeps in the Drum, and doubles over on the floor, retching. A murky black substance spills forth, and all Tseng can think of is that syringe in the lab. Whatever it was that Hojo had injected him with, and how he’s done this.

He kneels next to Rufus, hand already on his pistol, knowing what must be done, to save them both from the horrible thing he has subjected his lover to in his own selfishness, when Rufus turns to him, with eyes suddenly clear, _human_ , and confused. Tseng helps him to his feet, brings him a glass of water mixed with a light sedative, and as he watches Rufus slip back into the shadows of the bedroom, and crawl into their shared bed, he understands the true gravity of Hojo’s words. _I’m afraid he’ll never quite be who he was._

_Fin_


	15. No. 18: Panic! At the Disco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 18: Panic! At the Disco

Rufus wakes to find himself alone, hand trailing across the cool bed sheets where his lover should be. Strange, there is no need for protocol, or formality any longer, no one to answer to, or fear might expose them. He pulls himself upright with a groan, head pounding, as he tries to piece together the previous night. He does not remember having had much to drink, though his mouth feels parched, and there’s the vague rolling sense of nausea laying low in his stomach. He slides from the bed, groping for his robe, and makes his way to the bathroom.

He presses a warm damp cloth to his eyes, brushes his teeth, fills a glass with water from the tap, and stares at his reflection beneath the bright vanity lights. Eyes shadowed, lips pale, skin taut and ashen over high cheekbones. He drains the glass, fills another, though the water does little to quench that persistent thirst. He needs coffee, maybe a Bloody Ravanna to take the edge off _whatever_ this is.

Tseng is curled on the sofa, robe thrown over his shoulders. Rufus stares at him, uncertain as to why he’s chosen to sleep here. Had they had a disagreement late last night that resulted in Tseng leaving their bed? He remembers so very little of the night, only that they had fallen asleep in one another’s arms. He says nothing, and foregoing coffee, snags a bottle of vodka from the bar. There’s tomato juice in the fridge. He mixes it together, adding a generous amount of hot sauce, cracked pepper, garnishing it with 2 olives and a stalk of celery.

He takes two sips of it before he’s leaning over the kitchen sink, heaving. ‘Fuck.’ Maybe he’s sick, maybe that’s why Tseng slept alone. He winces, and pours the remaining mixture down the drain. 

‘Rufus?’

He starts at the sound of his name. When he turns, Tseng’s expression is stricken. ‘What?’ He asks, trying to make some semblance of what might have happened, and finding his memory so very hazy. ‘Fuck, what did we drink last night?’

‘Cognac, Sir.’ Tseng supplies, dark eyes suddenly devoid of any emotion at all, as if he’s being interrogated. ‘It must have been a combination of the painkillers. You said your injury was giving you trouble last night.’ Rufus eyes him suspiciously, he has no reason to doubt Tseng’s words, but ever since he has returned from being caught up in the crossfire, his lover has seemed strangely secretive.

‘You should go back to bed. I’ll see that your schedule is cleared for the day. You’re still recovering, it’s only to be expected--’

Tseng is already leading him back to his room, hand carefully resting against the small of his back, moving in a comforting pattern. He kisses him, tells him to rest, and slips from the room.

When Rufus wakes again he hears the muffled sound of Tseng’s voice, on a phone call it seems, though his tone is hushed, his words are angry. _Hojo_. Why is Tseng of all people talking to that old creep?

There’s the sound of footsteps approaching. He turns onto his side, and pretends to still be asleep. Tseng curses twice in Wutaian, says something that sounds a lot like a threat, and Rufus goes deathly still. A minute passes, then another, before he feels the familiar weight of Tseng settling beside him on the bed, gloved hand reaching out to trace along the side of his face, and hears a soft choked plea, before Tseng withdraws, and quietly closes the door behind him.

Rufus lays there in the stillness, blood pounding in his ears, and begins to doubt as the nagging ache of some insatiable hunger takes hold.

_Fin_


	16. No. 19: Broken Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 19: Broken Hearts

He sees them there, two figures silhouetted against the skyline, and aches. There’s the soft exchange of words, hands exploring as their lips touch. He hears the way his lover sighs into the stillness of this place, neck arched against the trail of a wet mouth, and as they fall together, bodies entwined, Rufus already making short work of clothing, fingers nearly clawing in his need to feel flesh, Tseng settles back into the shadows and buries the jealousy that gnaws at him, and tries to accept that this is the one thing he cannot give his lover. They fuck there against the glass, all hands, and teeth, and breathless sighs, Rufus moaning and pleading. When it is over, the man laughs softly, makes some quip of how he never thought the President of Shinra would be such a whore. That alone earns him this, watching the way Rufus’ face seems to transform into something grotesque, mouth full of razor sharp teeth. He watches as those same teeth tear into flesh, blood and viscera painting pale skin, as Rufus nearly bathes in it.

And later in the aftermath, as he scrubs the blood from the white marble tiles he thinks of Rufus in the darkness looking the most beautiful he has seen him. It is the first kill of what he knows will be many.

He goes to him, curls his body around his lover’s, and holds him close. He doesn’t know. The man he loves has no knowledge of the creature that resides within him, and Tseng will do whatever it takes to ensure that he never does. As he lays there, he is struck by the creeping sense of guilt, as if he is already grieving the loss of the lover he’s so desperately tried to save. Fearing that each night will draw Rufus further away from his humanity, leaving him a shell, a husk of a monster. It is agony enough to watch the only man he has ever truly loved moan while taking the cock of another, but whatever thing Hojo has spliced within Rufus feeds off of it, the sexual energy, the need to consume, and satiate itself on blood.

In the morning, Rufus will have no recollection. And Tseng will pray to any deity that might listen that he never does come to understand what happens in those dark hours of the night. Whatever this thing is, Tseng knows it is not Rufus. But if not, how much of his lover remains?

He accepts that he is in mourning. Even if Rufus is still here, he has lost the life they should have had together the moment he fired those errant shots in Reactor 1. Whatever trust has existed between them is now fraught with lies, Tseng giving half truths to spare Rufus the knowledge of what he is, what he will become, and Tseng unwilling to admit his part. That he has brought this upon them both, condemned his love to this existence, neither human, nor creature. Hojo’s words echoing in his mind, and how even still he finds it within himself to believe that this is worth the horror of this existence.

He is no stranger to the sins of Shinra. He’ll gladly cover up his own if it means that he might have a lifetime with Rufus still.

Rufus sighs in his arms, shifting until he’s propped up on his side. Light eyes seeking out Tseng’s in the darkness, he murmurs very quietly of how he has dreamt something hideous, that for all his efforts he is something more monstrous than his father, a cruel and merciless leader. Tseng kisses his pale brow, and offers words of assurance, how he will never allow that to happen. Rufus smiles softly, pressing a kiss to Tseng’s lips, and when he withdraws Tseng pretends that he doesn’t taste the metallic tang of blood. He whispers also of how he has dreamt of sex. When Tseng reaches down he feels the hardness between his legs, and saying nothing draws him into his mouth, listening to the sounds of Rufus mewling until he comes with a sudden cry.

They kiss again, Rufus moaning at the taste of himself on Tseng’s tongue, fingertips grasping at shoulders, working along Tseng’s spine. The words that escape him sound a lot like _I love you_. Tseng cannot find it within him to say it back. Even if he does love him, with a fierceness that might bring them both to ruin.

The second time it happens, Tseng watches once more. This time his lover bent over a desk, being railed from behind by some middle manager happy to comply to further his own ambitions. It’s shameful the way he gives himself up so readily, dreams of gil and status clouding his mind as he meets a bloody end. This time the creature beckons to Tseng, and despite his own trepidation, he accepts. Stretches out across the bloodied floor as this thing wearing his lover’s body lowers itself onto his cock and rides him until they’re both breathless and shuddering. And as it leans down to capture his mouth in a facsimile of a kiss, it hisses between blood stained pointy teeth, ‘You never said I love you back.’

_Fin_


	17. No. 20: Toto, I Have  Feeling We're Not in Kansas Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 20: Toto, I Have Feeling We're Not in Kansas Anymore

It is the third disappearance in 2 weeks when the rumours begin to spread. Whispered around the water cooler, and inside the employee lounge that there is _something_ inside the Shinra building. Perhaps something new has escaped from Hojo’s lab, slipping away in the shadows and stalking those who work late into the night, or that the eco-terrorists who killed the late President are abducting employees as leverage. Whatever it is, it is enough to make everyone within the Shinra building a bit nervous. A middle manager gone without a trace, a low tier MP who never made it home one night. Rufus is seen as competent, but little else. His inauguration is scheduled in 4 days time at the port of Junon. It will boost morale, Scarlet suggests during a routine board meeting, and the arrangements are made.

There is still the matter of Sephiroth, though Tseng seems less keen on troubling the newly appointed president with such matters, and when Heidegger bristles at the seeming lack of concern for whatever phantom had descended up the presidential office mere weeks before and assassinated his former boss, Tseng offers him a look that reminds him of just how the hierarchy has shifted. He is no longer in a position of authority, the Turks answering to no other but Rufus Shinra.

Tseng watches the man as he lingers a bit too long around the executive suite, checks his wrist watch and grows impatient. It’s been days since the demon residing within his lover has fed, and he needs to find some hapless soul to offer to him. It has not gotten easier, of that Tseng is certain, but there is a horrific normalcy to it. On those days when Rufus is pale, irritable, unfocused, Tseng does what he has been trained to do. Be a killer to ensure the safety and continuance of Shinra.

He’s seen a young man in the employee lounge. Pretty enough. _It_ always likes the pretty ones, and thinks of how they will make an adequate sacrifice tonight. He turns to look at Rufus, and sees no trace of the man he loves within those eyes. It’s time.

He sighs, tells himself that this is what _must_ be done. And makes his way to the elevator.

The employee is still there, hunched over on his laptop, looking at what he can only suspect is decidedly not safe for work material. Tseng might have found some amusement in all this, how they make it so easy to find, to seduce were it not for how distasteful his task is. The young man starts at his presence, slamming the laptop shut.

‘Looks like you weren’t exactly filling out spreadsheets.’

The man goes white, flustered, and terrified to have been approached by a Turk, when Tseng smiles. ‘It’s our secret. And anyway, I think I might have a proposition you’d be interested in.’ He tells him of the new President’s predilection, this fetish and need to be fucked by his employees, that there is gil to be had, a possible promotion if he’ll use Rufus Shinra like some Wall Market rentboy, sees the way their eyes go wide, with lust, greed, and yes, this one’s perfect. He supposes it’s a gift almost, so many within Shinra dreaming of one night with the President, he is certain all three thus far have died happy still coming down from the orgasmic high.

They return to Rufus’ penthouse to find it empty. It must still be in the presidential office waiting for Tseng to bring the newest victim. He leads the young man down the hall and up the stairs, and by the way he stares he understands that he has never once stepped foot onto the 70th floor. Well, at least it will be an all around memorable night as his very last. Tseng is met by the sounds of moaning, and stops dead in his tracks.

His lover’s form is splayed across the expansive desk, one leg braced against a broad shoulder as Heidegger thrusts into him at an erratic pace. It’s like being punched in the gut, all the air leaving his lungs at once. The young man at his side stammers, gives him a panicked look, and makes a hasty retreat, swearing that he has seen nothing, he won’t tell anyone. Tseng lets him go, unconcerned with what stories some low ranking employee might tell, instead he focuses on the hideous tableau playing out before him. The thing wearing his lover gasps and cries and begs for more, taking every inch of Heidegger’s cock. It fills Tseng with a type of disgust. This thing within him gets off on it, hurting Tseng amplifying it’s own gratification, and for a moment he thinks he might be sick. If he is to continue on this way, they must come to an arrangement, or there will be no more, he’ll find a way to excise this thing from Rufus.

Heidegger seems only vaguely aware of Tseng’s presence as he turns Rufus until he’s flat on his stomach against the desk, and drives into him once more, establishing a near brutal cadence. It’s some sick fantasy, Tseng suspects, the General’s seeming hatred for the former Vice President stemming from unrequited lust, and now with this thing at the helm, he has gotten his wish to see Rufus Shinra bent over taking his dick.

‘I’m going to need you to stop what you’re doing.’ Tseng says, voice even, betraying none of the emotion warring within him. Heidegger looks up, hips still driving into Rufus, and laughs.

‘I don’t know what game you two have, but I never thought you’d get off on this, Tseng.’

‘I told you to stop.’

There’s a sound that emits from Rufus’ mouth that sounds like a plea, then an order, and Heidegger begins to fuck him in earnest.

Tseng knows. It’s going to kill Heidegger. It shares Rufus’ memories, his anger, pain, hate. For all its hideous unchecked behaviour in moments such as these, it believes it is doing Rufus a favour, taking out the greatest threat within the hierarchy by seducing and feeding off him. Tseng considers letting it do this. He has no love for the old pompous bastard, remembers the way he had once relished in interrogating Rufus.

‘I said stop.’ Tseng levels his gun then, eyes filled with rage, and horror. He wishes he could just let this thing have its way, eliminate Heidegger, but that will bring with it questions, suspicion.

The thing within Rufus snarls then, and Heidegger pulls away suddenly. Tseng can’t recall if he’s ever seen anything but smug superiority and annoyance on Heidegger’s face, but in that moment he thinks he might see fear.

He’s tucking himself away, and making his exit before either can say another word, muttering something on his way out.

It’ll be beyond awkward in the morning.

It looks enraged, hungry, desperate. ‘Get over here, Turk.’

‘No.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I said no.’ Tseng trains his gun on this thing, and steps closer. ‘I’ve been bringing you men to fuck you for weeks for whatever this sick thing is. But no more of _this_.’ He’ll help sustain its bloodlust, but this is too much.

Tseng finds himself pressed against the desk, slender fingers gripping his throat, as it leans in close, ‘I’m the only thing keeping him alive. If I go.’ 

Eyes defiant, Tseng stares up at it. Rufus is still there, behind this horrid facade. He’s still his lover, still the same. ‘You can have me.’

It smiles, then, moving to slide between Tseng’s legs. ‘I already do.’ It makes short work of Tseng’s trousers, before pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s easy to pretend that this is simply his lover, and as it thrusts inside of him he bites back a cry and settles against the desk. He focuses on each stroke of that cock he knows so well, listening to those soft sighs, even as hands tear open his shirt, tongue tracing along a collarbone. Tseng braces himself as teeth pierce his skin, feels the hot rush of blood flowing into this creature’s mouth, and gives himself up to it.

When it is over, he stares up at Rufus’ face, and sees the sudden panic etched on those delicate features, the horror at what Tseng knows he must look like, smeared in his own blood. He reaches up to brush fingers against Rufus’ cheek. ‘I have to tell you something, Sir.’

_Fin_


	18. No. 22: Poisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No. 22: Poisoned

Tseng’s phone buzzes twice, the caller ID that lights up the lock screen reading ‘VP’. He prefers to keep this aspect of his life professional, but if one were to look through Tseng’s text history they would find words of affection, soft endearments, photos intended for no one else’s eyes. He keeps it under a secure double authentication of retinal scan and password. He lets the call go to voicemail. It’s the third this afternoon. Rufus waits in the penthouse suite of the Midgar Grand for his Turk to escort him to the most fashionable and elite charity ball in all of Gaia held this night at the Midgar Museum of Art, filled with celebrities, and socialites, politicians, and philanthropists. It also brings with it the threat of terrorist activity. 4 hours before, a death threat was made on public TV to some SIN reporter covering the excitement leading up to tonight’s event. Tseng had put Rude on Rufus, with orders to escort him to his suite at the hotel, and ensure that no one disturb the President’s son until Tseng could make it back to Sector 1. It has led him to a dead end, and with the afternoon growing late, the mission is abandoned, written off as some empty threat to disrupt the evening’s festivities and cause a panic.

As Tseng powers up the Shinra helicopter to return, the phone rings again. He knows Rufus’ impatience comes from his desire to fuck at least once before they are expected to be seen this evening, to take the edge off. The Vice President is always more social and amenable after Tseng has made him come, and after today’s wild chocobo chase down in the slums, Tseng isn’t opposed to finding release before they’re to make a public appearance. He ignores the call, the sooner he takes off, the sooner they both will get what they want. The slums fall away beneath him as he makes his short flight to the Shinra vertiport located two blocks from the hotel.

There is already a crowd of Midgarians flooding the streets outside the hotel, all clamouring to catch a sight of Rufus Shinra as he is ushered into a sleek dark luxury coupe. Tseng pays them little mind, pace quickening ever so slightly as he ducks into the posh lobby filled with glamorous actresses on the arms of powerful men, fashion designers preening over their muses, artists sharing drinks before they make their way to the gala. Amid the throng of Gaia’s A-listers, he spots a man in a suit that’s slightly ill fitting, too short in the sleeves, made from some cheap fabric, posing as hotel staff. The man looks up and Tseng knows he’s been spotted. Tseng turns on his earpiece and contacts Rude knowing he’s still positioned within the hotel running surveillance. ‘I’ve spotted our man.’ He gives a brief description, as well as location, and makes his way to the elevators, swipes his keycard, punches in the penthouse level, and tries to ignore the way his pulse begins to race. Rufus is safe, he knows he’s safe, the phone calls, he _must_ be safe.

He knocks on the door twice to alert Rufus of his arrival before pushing open the door. ‘Sir?’ He’s met by silence as the lock slides back into place. He steps into the living area, sees the crystal decanter of expensive cognac left open at the bar, and makes his way toward the bedroom. If Rufus has grown impatient in Tseng’s absence, there’s a high likelihood that he’s started the fun without him. He smiles just a little at the thought, and opens the bedroom door. The early evening light filters through the expansive floor to ceiling glass windows, casting the room in shadows. The bed is pristine, not a single pillow out of place, Tseng looks to the adjacent bathroom. Empty, as well. ‘Sir?’ He calls out once more, heart pounding in his chest with a growing sense of dread. ‘Rufus.’

He steps past the bed, toward the small landing near the windows, and freezes. _Rufus_.

His lover lies crumpled on the floor, light eyes frozen in a lifeless gaze, blood painting his lips, and staining the white silk of his robe in crimson. _No_. Glass crunches beneath his perfectly polished black Oxfords. A broken brandy snifter. _No, no, no_. He crouches beside Rufus, gloved hand taking his. ‘Rufus.’ Tseng has seen enough death to know that he is too late, by minutes. He reaches out to close those painfully blue eyes, and holds him close, warmth seeping through his finely tailored jacket. ‘Sir, please--’ For a moment he feels as if he is asphyxiating, unable to will breath into his lungs. He kisses those lips, unconcerned with the smear of blood left against his own, and cradles Rufus against him. The high insect whine of his earpiece sounds above the pounding in his head as an emotion stronger than grief takes hold, pure unbridled rage.

‘Chief, we got him. We’re going to take him back to headquarters for--’

‘No. Hold him, I’m coming down’ His voice sounds foreign to himself as he settles Rufus against the hard floor, fingertips lingering against his lover’s lower lip as he speaks. ‘Call for backup to the VP’s suite.’

‘Sir?’

‘Just fucking do it.’

In an abandoned warehouse in Sector 2, Tseng begins his interrogation. Jacket and tie discarded, dark hair pulled back from his face, a switchblade slotted with poison materia in hand. He says nothing, eyes barely registering that the person cuffed to the chair before him is even truly there.

‘You took something very precious from me.’ Tseng says as the flat edge of the blade drags along the curve of the assassin’s jaw. ‘I’m going to take parts of you until you’re begging for me to end it.’ The first cut of his blade takes an ear. The next, a finger. An eye. Each slice leaves behind a sickened dark trail from where the poison materia causes them to fester. He is deaf to the pleas, as he carves and flays flesh. From this there is no escape, and Tseng intends to savour each hideous moment, wreaking the agony and sorrow and hopeless fury upon the man who has taken his lover away. When the screams become tiresome, he slices out that tongue with a quick flash of his blade, before kicking the chair over and forcing the assassin to drink some hideous mixture of mako tainted slurry. He watches as they vomit blood and seize up, organs failing beneath the corrosive. And then he emerges, calls for clean up, and returns to the Midgar Grand. None say a word as the leader of the Turks glides through the lobby covered in blood. He returns to the room, now an empty crime scene filled with Shinra issue tape. Rufus is gone, body taken to the morgue where they’ll perform a toxicology report, and send him off to be made a spectacle of one final time.

  
He checks his voice messages, then. To hear Rufus’ voice once more. The first is routine, Rufus asking him to return his call. The second, impatient. The third, he’s purring his lust, telling Tseng all the things he desires to do to him once he’s returned. And the fourth. The fourth he’s met by coughing, the broken words that sound a lot like _I love you_. And then silence. Tseng deletes them all, drops the phone to the floor and crushes it beneath his heel.

Tseng looks to the cognac still resting on the bar, and pours himself a drink. He’s never taken to the flavour, preferring single malt whiskeys, but as he stares out across Midgar, he thinks how he might finally have developed a taste for it.

_Fin_


End file.
